


I Call It Farthenwood

by SpenceRose



Category: The Ascendance Trilogy - Jennifer A. Nielsen
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Mott is a good man, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpenceRose/pseuds/SpenceRose
Summary: Mott is given Farthenwood after the death of his friend. As he arrives, he reflects on what he has lost in the war.





	I Call It Farthenwood

Mott stared at the wooden sign illuminated in the moonlight, the one that marked this as Conner’s home. And it had been until what felt like ages ago. But now… it was his, a gift from the king. Mott still wasn’t sure he should have accepted it. It felt backhanded to… his friend. 

Finally he shook his head and urged his horse forward slowly. Jaron had wanted to provide some other way of getting him there but Mott had refused. He’d wanted to go alone, to be alone. It had been rough on his body, the ache in his side reminding him that he was still healing, but he didn’t regret it. Even if he hadn’t been able to control his thoughts.

The building was very well maintained, Jaron had sent people to have it cleaned up and prepared for Mott’s arrival. He dismounted his horse and then took him to the stables, patting the animal’s nose before he headed towards the manor. A hand was pressed to his side as he looked up at the building, his home. He sucked in a breath and straightened up, walking inside. 

It was a familiarity that he had missed and he thought to the last time he’d been here. It felt so long ago now, a time before all this. When he’d been on the wrong side of things. And now… 

Mott sighed. It felt different in a way he couldn’t describe. But he ignored it for now and moved towards his old room. He needed sleep, to rest and hopefully be able to tell himself that his life and all he’d known wasn’t changed forever. But that’s exactly what had happened, so many things feeling different now. Some for the better, thankfully, but some not.

His room seemed unchanged as he entered it. It was always plain to begin with. He wasn’t a man who ever had many possessions that couldn’t easily be moved. He had the room and money for things and Conner, in his younger kinder days, had given him a few things. But now those were gone and he sighed heavily as he sat on the bed. He sat there for a moment and then finally moved to get ready for the night. 

Sleep was not kind to Mott that night. He tossed and turned. Or at least he felt he did. Really he hardly moved from the pain emanating from his side. What was this curse the devils had given him? Why had he of all people been given this?

Finally he forced himself up and threw off the blanket with a flourish that radiated through his wound. He lit a lantern and left his room and left the building. He stood outside in the courtyard where he’d used to train and he felt himself relax. He looked around at how things had been stripped bare before picking up a wooden sword, feeling it’s strange but familiar weight in his hand. He swung it a few times before it dropped from his hand and he clutched at his side again, a frustrated a growl. The sword was not heavy at all and yet he was panting as if he’d just gone through some terribly physically demanding task. 

Finally, he was able to bring himself to straighten up and walk farther from the building. He had a destination in mind and it didn’t take too long to reach it. It was but a few minutes later that he came across the stone. Carved across it was  _ Bevin Conner _ and nothing more. It wasn’t even much of a gravestone, just something to mark the area. It made Mott wonder how the world would remember Conner in a few years. If his final act of bravery would survive against his crimes. 

He sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t here to ponder the destiny of his dead friend. Rather he was here to… ponder his own. He stepped forward and knelt to run his fingers over the stone, tracing the etching of the name. He sighed deeply and put the lantern down as he sat. He was quiet for a long moment and then he leaned back to look up at the sky. 

“You used to tell me your plans on nights like this,” he said finally, breaking the silence between himself and the stone. “When we were young, so much would go over my head. You just kept saying that you wanted to help the country. Then…” He looked down. “Oh how you worried me. I was always loyal to you, always, and it was never my place to say anything but at times I wonder if I could have changed things. If perhaps the dark road you went down could have been avoided.”

There was a deep sigh and he looked back up at the stars. He let the quiet wash over him again and his hand went to his side. He could feel the sword plunge into him, hear the yelling and sounds of the battle, and even smell the distinct scent of blood. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth as he remembered those moments of coherency he was allotted. Finally, he sat up and rubbed a hand over his head. 

“I’m useless now, you know. I can hardly do anything,” he said, voice a scarce whisper. Saying this made it feel so real. He closed his eyes to reel in his emotions and then opened them to look back towards the building that was his home. “That’s why I came back here. I couldn’t bear to be a burden on anyone else. Jaron insisted I wouldn’t be but…”

He sighed and pulled at the grass, leaning on one hand. Why was he talking to the empty air like this? Why did he feel like he was actually being heard? By who, he couldn’t quite place. Conner, the saints, the devils… At least he could finally speak his thoughts.

“I can’t protect anyone, I’m so weak now.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “My friends… my  _ family… _ I let them all down.” 

It took a moment for him to realize that a tear was running down his cheek. He quickly reached up to wipe it away. How long had he been harboring these feelings? Too long. He put his head in his hands, finally feeling himself break now that he was alone. He  _ ached _ and he knew that it had nothing to do with the physical wound.

“My entire purpose is just… gone…” That’s what they’d told him, he’d never fight again. He couldn’t. That’s what he’d done his entire life. He rubbed a hand over his head again.

Mott was not a man used to feeling helpless and yet here he sat, wondering how on earth he could ever hope to be useful to anyone again. No matter how much they tried to assure him otherwise, he couldn’t bring himself to truly believe it. 

“Even before I couldn’t protect Jaron.” Thinking to what he’d heard, how the young man had almost died… He squeezed his eyes shut. “How could I have allowed that? I could have stopped him from being so foolish if only I hadn’t…”

He realized then that he’d been crying, tears running down his face freely for the first time in years. He’d always had to be the strong one, the support, but finally he was alone. So he cried.

He cried for what seemed like hours, his emotions spilling out with his tears. He cried himself out eventually and was left with just exhaustion. He fell asleep out in the grass and woke up much more rested than he had in months but ultimately sore from sleeping on the uneven ground. 

He came back to the same place several times, feeling a little better each time to be getting out his feelings. He needn’t burden anyone with them this way, which was more than ideal for him. Though he took care to go back to his bed each time, despite that he was healing. And he was, in many ways. 


End file.
